


The Way We Stand

by EclecticMuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Missing Scenes, i guess, more like filling in the blanks, slight bit of romance, tiny bits of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticMuse/pseuds/EclecticMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The slow evolution of Molly and Sherlock's relationship after the events of The Reichenbach Fall. Contains spoilers for Series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into this fandom and pairing, so I am both nervous and excited! Big, huge thanks go to my betas for all the help and encouragement they've given me: Caitlin, broomclosetkink, Rachel, Trill, and Willow. This story would be a hot mess without you guys, seriously. Squishy hugs to all of you.

With just a few words, the world falls out from beneath Molly Hooper’s feet.

_I think I’m going to die._

Sherlock’s words run terrible, taunting circles in her head. She’s barely recovered from him appearing from out of nowhere and startling her, and now _this_. Something is horribly wrong; this she knows because he’s _different_. He isn’t complimenting her, manipulating her to get what he wants. John isn’t here; for once, Sherlock is alone. Cold dread settles into the pit of her stomach as tears prick at her eyes and she feels paralyzed, unable to look away as he comes closer. He sounds-- _emotional_ , if she could dare think it, but she can’t because she’s suffocating under the weight of his gaze and his words.

“What do you need?” she asks. She’d meant what she said earlier, no matter how awkward and fumbling she had been, and now--for reasons she can’t possibly fathom--he appears to have taken it to heart. But as Sherlock mounts what almost sounds like a protest, or maybe a warning, there’s only one word that manages to rise above the white noise rushing through her head, beating as loudly and clearly as her heart: yes. Of course she still wants to help. She always will. Always.

So she repeats herself--"what do you need?"--and hates how thin and reedy her voice sounds. But it doesn’t seem to faze Sherlock, who has stopped right in front of her. He gazes down at Molly with an intensity that is both breathtaking and frightening. It’s only now she realizes that he, too, has tears in his eyes.

The cold dread of before rises up to lodge in her throat.

There’s a long, suspended second where he doesn’t answer her. They are poised on the edge of something immense; she can feel it. Then Sherlock whispers one word, and the icy fear in her throat mushrooms into terror.

_You._

\--------

Molly reports to work the next morning as usual, despite having gotten no sleep at all, and is thankful there’s no one else in the lab to see how jittery and nervous she is. She tries busying herself with paperwork and routine tests in order to keep her mind occupied. If she’s concentrating on work then she won’t be able to spare a thought for what may or may not be happening up on the roof--which is a lie, she is definitely thinking about it, it’s consuming her--and if her shift ends and the slab in the morgue is still bare, then everything will be okay.

The sound of lab door banging open shatters the illusion.

“Doctor Hooper?” Molly turns to see an orderly in the doorway, his expression disturbed. “We’ve--we’ve got a body in. You--”

She is out of her seat and rushing for the morgue before the man is done speaking. His face, his voice--she _knows_.

To her surprise there are two gurneys in the morgue instead of one when she arrives, the orderly trailing behind her. She looks past the doctor hovering nearby and immediately focuses in on the body that’s closest, moving toward it as if drawn by a magnet. And there he is: eyes closed, face covered in blood. Unmoving. Sherlock Holmes, dead.

Molly doesn’t have to feign the horror and the bile rising in her throat, the way her hands fly to cover her mouth as a small noise escapes. It’s very, very real. He _looks_ dead; and for all she knows he might actually be, or will be unless--

“Out,” she says, her voice shaking. “Both of you, out.”

Naturally, the doctor and the orderly protest. She’d counted on this. And why shouldn’t they? Poor Molly Hooper, faced with the body of the man she loves--she won’t be thinking straight, she’ll fall to pieces. The orderly offers to take her upstairs, away from the morgue, while the doctor says they can find someone else to do the autopsies instead, so she won’t have to. Except--

“ _No_ ,” she says emphatically, shrugging them off. “ _Out_. I’m--I’m fine, I can handle this--”

In the end she has to physically push them from the room and bolt the door. There might be repercussions later, she knows, but for now...

She turns and looks at the other gurney. On it is Jim-- _no, Moriarty_ \--and he, at least, is _very_ dead. Molly can’t help the twinge of emotion that stings at the sight of him, because a part of her has not yetmanaged to successfully separate sweet Jim from IT from the monster that was really James Moriarty. Sucking in a deep breath, she turns her back on him--closes the door--and moves quickly toward her office. There, inside the top drawer of her desk, is a syringe and the vial of liquid that will bring Sherlock back to life. Taking them back out into the morgue, she draws a dose as quickly as she can with her shaking hands and taps the syringe to dissipate any air bubbles. Then she pauses for just a second, swallowing thickly, before sticking the needle into the side of his neck.

Knowing the drugs won’t take effect immediately only makes it more nerve-wracking. Molly disposes of the syringe and turns away, taking a moment to calm herself. It won’t do to still have shaking hands and a racing heart when Sherlock wakes up. _If_ he wakes up--but she immediately banishes that last thought. They both knew there was the chance of something going wrong with their plan--not even Sherlock Holmes could account for every variable--but it was the slimmest of chances. Sherlock had explained every detail and they had gone over every step until she could recite it back to him word for word. This was going to work. It _had_ to.

Turning back to Sherlock, she reaches for him--hesitates--then presses her fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It’s there; weak, but steady. He’s alive.

_We did it._

She has to grip the edge of the gurney for a moment as her knees grow weak with relief. So much for calming herself.

_Focus, Molly. Focus._

First things first. Sherlock can’t leave like this, his face covered in blood. _Right_. Molly takes another deep breath and pushes the gurney toward the back of the morgue, where there is a large basin sink. Another moment to find a sponge and a pair of latex gloves, and Molly sets to work gently sponging the blood from Sherlock’s face. His hair will have to wait. Knowing it’s not really his blood--  but rather blood from a pack nicked from the lab, hastily poured on to give the appearance of a mortal wound-- doesn’t stop a hard knot from forming in her chest.

 _He’s alive, he’s alive_ , she finds herself repeating mentally, stopping every moment or so to check his pulse.

It’s only when she has finished and is washing her hands at the sink that she hears the first sign of movement from him: the sound of the gurney creaking. She hastily shuts the water off and dries her hands before spinning around. Sherlock’s head is turning slightly, his fingers slowly clenching into loose fists. She’s at his side in an instant, eyes wide as she looks him over. “Sherlock?” she whispers.

He doesn’t immediately reply; his eyes are closed and his face is slightly pinched as if in pain. His hands clench and unclench one more time before his head rolls toward her and, slowly, he blinks his eyes open. It’s another moment before he can focus on her. When he does, his face relaxes slightly.

“Molly,” he murmurs, his voice rough.

She puts on a brave smile. “You did it. We--I mean you--you did it.”

He nods once and closes his eyes again briefly before moving to push himself into a sitting position. Molly automatically moves to help him, bracing a hand at his back and making sure he doesn’t tumble to the floor. She may be habitually nervous around him but that doesn’t mean she can’t do her job when she needs to. Once he’s up, hands gripping the side of the gurney, she asks, “How do you feel?”

“Sedated. Bruised. Both will pass, given time.” He looks and sounds like he’s been through hell. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Not even half an hour,” she says quietly. She elects not to say that it _felt_ so much longer. Instead she carefully touches his arm. “We need to get you to my office.”

Sherlock nods again and starts to slide off the gurney. Molly catches him, lets him lean his weight on her--he can’t walk unaided yet--and ducks to get his arm across her shoulders so she can steady him. It’s the closest she’s ever been to him physically, theirsides pressing together as he leans heavily on her, her arm around his waist and her hand gripping his. Once upon a time, this (the mere thought of this) would have had her heart racing and her skin tingling, but now...all she feels is a heavy sort of sadness. It’s not for herself, but for him. In essence, he is now dead. He’s killed himself. And she helped him do it.

They stagger into her office and get him into her chair. He closes his eyes again and presses his hands together beneath his chin, breathing slowly and deeply. “How long until Mycroft arrives?” he asks. Already the sedatives are wearing off and his voice is clearing up.

Molly glances at the clock as she moves to pick up the bag containing the disguise they’d cobbled together overnight. “Another half hour, an hour at most.” The elder Holmes brother is coming to ‘identify’ the bodyand to pull the strings that they cannot. Mycroft is covering their tracks. “Do you need anything? Water--?”

Sherlock waves away her concern, not bothering to open his eyes. “No.”

She can’t help it--a sharp burst of hurt bubbles up alongside the concern. How could he so easily dismiss her, after everything? But no, this is Sherlock, shemust not take it personally. It’s not intentional. She swallows hard and drops the bag of clothes at his feet. “Right. Well. I’ve--I still need to get the body ready for Mycroft--and finish the paperwork--” She turns and hurries from her office before she can humiliate herself by bursting into tears from stress.

Staying busy, going through the motions of work, it keeps the tears at bay. She unlocks the doors, prepares the body they’d selected to stand in for Sherlock’s, and covers Moriarty’s body with a sheet before picking back up the forged records needed to prove Sherlock’s death. There’s no need to remind him that he needs to stay quiet lest someone hear him, and he can change his clothes himself. She’s not sure he would accept her help again and she isn’t sure she won’t fall completely apart. She needs these moments alone to regroup.

She’s nearly finished with the paperwork when the doors to the morgue open. She jumps up, ready to chase away whoever the intruder is. But it’s just Mycroft, slim and inscrutable in his expensive suit, umbrella hooked at the crook of his arm.

“Doctor Hooper,” he says by way of a greeting, then looks past her to the covered bodies on the gurneys behind her. “Is that--?”

Not quite trusting herself to speak, Molly motions for him to follow her. At the gurney, she pulls the sheet back just far enough for Mycroft to see the body’s face. He nods tersely and Molly lets the sheet drop back down. She’s long since stopped questioning the inner workings of the Holmes brothers, but seeing Mycroft act so stoic--even if it’s just for show--is still a bit jarring.

“I will handle the rest of the arrangements,” Mycroft says and, by all appearances, he could be talking about personal effects and burial. “Your assistance has been very much appreciated. I’m sure it was--quite difficult for you."

Molly presses her lips into a line and looks away. She can’t bear to see the pity she’s sure is in Mycroft’s eyes. “It was...it had to be me,” she says quietly. Before Mycroft can comment further, she adds, “His...his things. You’ll be wanting them?”

Mycroft takes the redirect gracefully and inclines his head toward her. “Of course. Lead the way, Doctor Hooper.”

In her office, they find Sherlock wearing his disguise and once again sitting in her chair, but now his eyes are open. His gaze is far away, looking through and past them to something they cannot see. Molly can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind, who or what he’s thinking about. She has a fair few guesses.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

There is a prolonged pause before Sherlock focuses his eyes, leaning back in the chair and looking at his brother.

Mycroft continues as though discussing the weather, but keeping his voice low. “There is a car waiting for you at the back entrance. Doctor Hooper will show you the way. You have ten minutes. Don’t miss it.” He looks like he wants to say something more, but instead thinks better of it and gives them both a tight smile. Nodding at her again, he takes the bag containing Sherlock’s clothes and tucks it under one arm, silently excusing himself from the office. Molly watches him go. The distant sound of the morgue doors opening and closing follows seconds later.

“That leaves us little time,” Sherlock mutters from behind her. She turns to him and he’s standing with a small degree of difficulty. The time in her office rid his body of the sedatives but it will take a few days for the soreness in his muscles to fade. Molly fights the urge to help him and follows him into the morgue before darting ahead to check the corridor and ensure it’s empty.

They walk together in silence. Sherlock has a noticeable limp and it slows their progress. Molly is so anxious of being discovered that she’s sure at any moment he will snap at her to stop thinking so loudly. But he doesn’t. He just pulls the hood of his coat over his head and follows her through the twists and turns of the hospital corridors until they reach the back entrance.

Molly pushes the door open and looks around. At the end of the alley, a sleek black car is waiting at the curb.

_That’ll be Mycroft’s men, then._

“Two minutes,” Sherlock announces, making her jump--it’s the first thing he’s said since leaving her office. As he moves past her and into the alley, a sudden panic seizes her and she reaches for him, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of his coat. “Sherlock--”

But he’s already turning back to face her, and all the things she wants to say dies on her lips.

_Where are you going? Will you be okay? Will I ever see you again?_

Instead she stands frozen as Sherlock steps in close and grasps her by the shoulders. They stand that way for an endless, suspended second. She’s unable to look away from him, reading in his eyes all the things that he can’t or won’t say: grief, pain, gratitude, determination. It’s only when she can feel tears pricking at her eyes that he moves, bending down--her breath catches--to briefly touch his forehead to hers.

A squeeze of his hands on her shoulders and then he pulls back, giving her one last look before turning away. She can only stand and watch as he walks away from her--away from his life and everyone that he cares for-- and heads into the unknown, a limping figure in a too-large coat and trousers. He doesn’t look back at her when he reaches the black car. He simply gets in without hesitation and shuts the door. The car pulls away out of sight, and it feels like it is taking her heart with it.

It’s the last Molly sees or hears of Sherlock for two years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, big thanks to my betas Caitlin, Trill, Rachel, KingCrawa, and broomclosetkink. Your help and suggestions have been invaluable.

Sherlock’s funeral is awful.

There aren’t very many people there aside from the press who want to get a look in. Mycroft barely acknowledges her (but then, she didn’t expect him to, really). Mrs. Hudson sobs uncontrollably, Lestrade and Anderson look haunted, and John--well, John is the worst of them all. He won’t speak or look at anyone. He just stares straight ahead and leans heavily on his cane, a devastated shell of a man. It makes Molly feel sick to her stomach. She doesn’t even have to fake the tears that fall; simply seeing all of them wracked with grief, _knowing_ she can’t tell them the truth, makes her feel absolutely wretched.

She’s one of the first to leave the graveyard, with herarms tightly crossed and herhead ducked. She can feel the pitying eyes of everyone else on her and she knows what they must be thinking. _Well, she did love him, didn’t she? Poor girl. She must be a wreck_. But the truth is that, knowing what she does about Sherlock, she simply can’t bear to be near them anymore.

The lying gets easier with time. She thinks it might be because she’s grieving for Sherlock too--despite knowing the truth, she still lost him--and that helps her keep up the façade. What also helps is that their little group, the people hebrought together, is slowly drifting apart.

She keeps in touch with Mrs. Hudson through phone calls and the occasional visit, but it’s not much. The older woman wants to reminisce about Sherlock and it’s too painful for Molly to hear. Lestrade still comes by the morgue on cases but he always keeps their conversations strictly professional. She doesn’t see John again after the funeral. Mrs. Hudson tells her that he moved out of Baker Street a few weeks after the funeral, that being alone in the flat with reminders of Sherlock everywhere was unbearable for him. He promised to call but, as Mrs. Hudson says, “I’m not sure he will. Not for awhile at least.”

It makes Molly feel lonely and heartbroken, the most alone she’s ever been. She’d come to consider them friends, like a haphazard little family, and she misses them dearly. Losing them might be convenient for the purpose of keeping Sherlock’s secret safe, but that doesn’t mean she likes it.

It’s the waiting, the not knowing, that isn’t easy. The first few weeks are the hardest, when most of her waking thoughts are spent on Sherlock and her dreams filled with him too: worrying about him, wondering where he is, and what he’s doing. If he’s even still alive.

 _Of course he is_ , Molly tells herself. There’s no other option to consider. She clings to her faith that he’ll come back, that he will successfully take down Moriarty’s syndicate and he will _come back_. To…what, though? To _her_? Sherlock made no such promise and she’s not silly enough to believe that she’s anything special to him now. She may have been mistaken in thinking that she didn’t count, but Sherlock doesn’t do relationships, not proper ones anyway. Even if he didn’t he certainly wouldn’t be interested in one with her. They could be friends, perhaps, maybe a bit like him and John. But nothing more. No, she doesn’t want Sherlock to come back for her. She wants him to come back for everyone else.

As the weeks turn into months, Molly begins to accept that she can’t keep her life on hold just because she doesn’t know when he’ll return. She reconnects with old friends and starts going out with them after work and on the weekends. Her nightmares begin to fade. She stops looking for Sherlock in crowds. Slowly, life begins to move on.

Six months after Sherlock’s fall, Molly meets Tom. They are introduced through mutual friends and they instantly hit it off. Tom is funny and kind and easily stomachs her work stories, which is not something she’s used to. Most people shy away from them. They keep meeting at the pub with friends and then it’s just the two of them and before she can fully process what’s happening, he’s asked her out on a date.

It takes him a few tries before Molly finally says yes, because she feels torn. Tom is sweet, he really is. He works as an accountant, and he has a dog and a sister and parents who live in Norfolk. He is stable and easygoing and cheerful to a fault. He is, in short, absolutely the sort of man she would have loved to date before Sherlock. He even looks a little bit like him.

Now?

Sherlock isn’t here and Tom _is_. She may love Sherlock, but she’s known from the beginning that it was only ever one-sided; with Tom, she has a chance to actually build something. She can’t spend the rest of her life waiting for something to happen when the odds aren’t in her favor. She’s sure that, given time, she could grow to love Tom just as much as she loves Sherlock, if their relationship progresses that far.

It’s that--the possibility of a future against her ever-present loneliness--that has her choosing Tom.

More weeks, more months pass. The seasons change. Molly and Tom grow closer and everyonebegins tobelieve that she really has gotten over Sherlock and moved on. Maybe, she thinks, shehas. She never completely stops thinking about him, not really, but she attributes it toher worry over his well-being. He doesn’t consume her thoughts as much as he did anymore and she has managed to compartmentalize her feelings for him into a small box, tucked safely away in a corner of her heart.

One year and eight months after Sherlock’s fall, Tom asks Molly to marry him. She cries as she says yes and kisses him as he hugs her. Nothing, she thinks, could ruin her happiness now. She has a job she loves and a wonderful man who loves her, and whom she loves in return. She can see her life stretching outbefore her and it’s everything she’s wanted and dreamed of and feared she would never have.  She is finally happy and content.

Two years, one month, and six days after Sherlock’s fall, all of that changes.

She’s at work, going on her lunch break and heading to the staff room to grab her bag. It’s been a long morning and all she can think of is her leftover curry for lunch and then dinner with Tom. She’s getting the door to her locker open when something in the mirror catches her eyes. She looks up--and her heart stops.

It’s Sherlock. Sherlock standing behind her, Sherlock seeing her eyes lock with his reflection, Sherlock smiling as she turns around to face him.

There are so many emotions rushing through her that she can’t process them. Shock, relief, anger, dizziness, happiness. Happiness so great that she fears her heart will burst. Here he is, finally back and right in front of her and looking whole and healthy and sane and that’s all she could have ever asked for. There are so many things she wants to do, too--laugh, cry, shout, hug him--but in the end she settles for smiling and willing her pulse to slowdown. It won’t do to make a scene.

“Is--is it over? Are you back?” she asks hesitantly, as if he’s a hallucination that could disappear at any second.

Sherlock nods and folds his hands behind his back, still smiling. “It’s over. Moriarty’s organization is no longer a threat.”

Molly breathes out as relief rushes through her. “And John? Does he know yet?”

Sherlock’s face turns down at her question and he looks briefly away. “Yes. He does. However, he...didn’t take it as well as I’d hoped.”

“Oh.” Her voice is neutral, but she isn’t very surprised. She thinks if she were in John’s place, she might have a few choice words to say to him too--after she fainted. “Well...I’m sure he’ll come round eventually.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “That’s what Mary said.”

“Mary?”

“John’s fiancée. Or, soon-to-be fiancée.” He unfolds his hands. “And you were just about to take your lunch break, weren’t you?”

Molly blinks, thrown by the abrupt segue. “Er, yes,” she replies, wondering where he’s going with this. She turns back to her locker to pull out her bag. “It’s leftover curry today.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise and she feels a pang of embarrassment. Evidently he wasn’t going anywhere with his question; it was merely an observation. That hasn’t changed then, his disdain of what he considers banal and unimportant information. It’s both reassuring and frustrating.

(Frustrating? There should be nothing frustrating about it. Her days of wishing Sherlock would really take notice of her are over. She’s got Tom now.)

Closing the locker door, Molly turns back to him and shoulders her bag. “Have you told anyone else? That you’re back--not really dead, I mean.”

This time Sherlock’s expression is more amiable. “I have a few stops to make before there’s any sort of announcement,” he says, “but I wanted to tell you personally. It seemed--appropriate.”

How considerate. Something warm blooms in Molly’s chest, and she gives him a small smile. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it. Really.”

They stand that way for a moment: Molly smiling and Sherlock staring back with a slight smile on his face. Then his eyes flit to her bag and he starts toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, suddenly all business. “But we’ll see each other again.”

“Okay,” is all Molly manages to get out before he is off, leaving her with a faint sense of whiplash. She has to blink a few times and resist the urge to pinch herself and check that she’s not dreaming, that the past few minutes really did happen. Sherlock is alive, he’s back, and he came to tell her himself. She can’t stop the tingle of delight that runs down her spine, nor the smile on her face or the rapid beat of her heart. She matters enough that he wanted to tell her himself.

_You do count._

Then the sunlight coming through the window catches the stones on her engagement ring, and her thoughts immediately sober.

Of course he came to tell her in person. It’s the sort of consideration any friend would show another, and that’s what she wanted, right? To be friends.

Later that night, she decides not to tell Tom about Sherlock right away; she’ll wait for the announcement. It’s not her story to tell. Besides, she feels a little guilty for the butterflies that have been swarming her stomach all afternoon. Dinner will serve as a good reminder of where her heart and feelings belong now, where they need to belong--and it’s not with a consulting detective just resurrected from the dead.

Seeing Tom smile at her from across the table goes a long way toward settling her heart.

The news of Sherlock’s return breaks the following afternoon while they’re at the pub. Tom starts suddenly before urgently tapping Molly’s arm. When she looks over, he points toward the one television in the pub tuned to the news. There, in big bold letters, is _Hat Detective Alive_.

“Molly!” Tom says excitedly. “That’s Sherlock Holmes, right? He’s alive! Bloody hell. You used to work with him, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she replies, smiling. “I did.”

\--------

The Saturday after Sherlock returns, Molly receives a text from him.

_Baker St._   
_Now._   
_I need to speak with you._

She hasn’t made plans with Tom so she sends Sherlock a quick text back saying she’ll be there soon, then hurries to leave. On the way over she lets her mind wander, not bothering to deny her excitement, wondering what he could possibly need to talk to her about that can’t wait until Monday morning. Something about John? A case? Most anything else would be ridiculous to consider coming from Sherlock. Definitely a case then.

Her theories prove correct when she reaches Baker Street and Sherlock--uncharacteristically hesitant--asks her if she would like to help him solve crimes.

Ah. So John still hasn’t come round then, yet.

(And if Sherlock can ignore her slip-up of thinking he was asking her to dinner, so can she.)

Clients start coming in almost immediately. Molly has serious reservations about how helpful she’ll actually be, despite his reassurances that she is not replacing John, but she tries her best to be a good assistant. Helper. Cohort. Whatever it is she’s being. She takes careful notes, fetches his laptop if he needs it, and offers her opinion when asked. They breeze through several cases before lunch, and then they are offto help Lestrade with a few cases.

It turns out to be quite a nice day. Even though it’s obvious to her (and later Lestrade) that Sherlock misses having John around, Sherlock appears to be taking her help very seriously. They’ve kept up a steady banter throughout the day that has felt surprisingly easy and comfortable. She doesn’t stammer like she used to in his presence. Today more than ever she’s felt like she’s on the same level as he is, that he’s treating her with respect--like an equal. It makes her heart burn curiously in her chest, stirring up old thoughts and feelings she thought were safely buried. It’s almost shameful, how easily they flare back to life. One glance or smile from Sherlock sets her heart racing in ways Tom never has, but she can’t bring herself to feel bad about it. She’s missed him, and she’s soaking up his presence like a sponge.

At the same time, however, his attention makes her wary. Perhaps she’s spent too long in the company of a Sherlock who would manipulate and pander to her feelings for him, but the clear pains he has taken today leave her suspicious. It all comes to a head when they leave Howard Shilcott’s flat and he asks her if she wants chips.

“Sherlock?” she asks as she follows him down the stairs. “What was today about?”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock turns to look up at her. “Saying thank you,” he replies simply.

Her steps slow as she suddenly feels uncomfortable beneath his gaze. “For what?” Playing deliberately dumb can’t work with Sherlock, but she can try.

“For what you did for me.”

She knows he’s talking about faking his death. For reasons she can’t quite explain--maybe it’s the way he’s speaking with what she knows is genuine heartfelt honesty, and it’s too strange coming from him--she does _not_ want to talk about this. “It’s okay,” she says quickly, edging past him into the entryway. “It was my pleasure.”

“No--I mean it.”

Something in his voice makes her turn back, and suddenly all the comfort of the day vanishes. She is once again stammering Molly Hooper, second-guessing everything she says, pinned in place by the intensity of his voice and unable to move. “I don’t mean pleasure, I mean I--I didn’t mind,” she says, trying in vain to make light of it. “I wanted to.”

Sherlock isn’t deterred. “Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me, was the one person the mattered the most. You made it all possible.”

She can’t breathe. She can’t look away. She can’t do _anything_. It’s an echo of what she felt when he approached her in the lab two years ago. What is he saying, what does he mean? He can’t possibly be--is this what she’d once wanted from him, too little, too late?

Her jumbled thoughts are cut off by Sherlock sighing, his expression turning wry. “But you can’t do this again, can you.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Of course he knows. He probably knew the instant she walked into the staff room. She struggles to put on a smile as her chest tightens. “I had a lovely day. I’d love to, I just--um--” She looks down at her engagement ring, which suddenly weighs heavy on her finger.

Sherlock looks down too. “Congratulations, by the way,” he says quietly, nodding at her ring.

Molly sighs. “He’s not from work.” Sherlock smiles slightly at that: a morbid little joke just for the two of them. “We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He’s--he’s got a dog, we go to the pub on weekends--” Dear God, she’s babbling and she can’t stop herself. “I’ve met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family, and I have no idea why I’m telling you all this--”

Fortunately, Sherlock saves her from herself. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.” A pause. “After all, not _all_ the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths.”

Molly’s heart thuds in her chest. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his awareness of her feelings for him. “No?” she whispers.

He shakes his head slightly. “No.” And then he’s stepping toward her, his expression morphing into somethingbittersweet. Mollylooks up at him, afraid of her heart and all of the feelings flooding it, and waits. He looks at her for another moment before smiling again--but this time it’s almost sad, why is it sad?--and leans down to press his lips to her cheek in a brief, tender kiss.

Her eyes flutter shut as sadness floods her. It’s so much like the kiss from that awful Christmas years ago, but yet it’s _more_ , so much more, in ways she can’t express. There’s an indefinable something thick in the air between them, and she knows she’s not imagining things. This is real. This is Sherlock expressing the sentiment he’s so often professed to hate. The knowledge that it’s only come now, when she’s engaged to be married to another man, shoots a sliver of pain deep into her heart. She doesn’t know what he means to convey through this kiss, but it almost feels like a goodbye--as if Sherlock is letting her go.

How can he let her go when she was never his to begin with?

Sherlock pulls away and leaves without another word before she can open her eyes. She listens to him go before sighing and looking to the door. “Maybe it’s just my type,” she murmurs to the empty entryway.

Maybe she’s a glutton for punishment

Swallowing, she moves to follow Sherlock through the door and out to the street, pulling her gloves on as she goes. He’salready started down the pavement, buttoning his coat against the chill air. She watches him go for a moment, then turns and heads in the opposite direction, her heart desperately confused and heavy.

One thing has just been made painfully clear to her.

She is most definitely _not_ over Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of short. A big thank you as always to my betas Caitlin, Rachel, and broomclosetkink for all their thoughts and suggestions.

It takes a little while, but the immediate upheaval of Sherlock’s return smoothes out. John accepts his apology and Mary (who is lovely, Molly quite likes her) fully accepts Sherlock into her life. Sherlock and John solve cases together, Sherlock invades her lab for experiments and bothers her for body parts off her cadavers, Lestrade gratefully accepts his help on cases, and Mrs. Hudson just beams and beams as though everything is finally right again with the world.

Winter turns to spring. Molly does her best to get on with her life, trying to keep busy with work and Tom and their own ill-formed wedding plans, but her mind keeps drifting back to the kiss at Howard Shilcott’s flat block. Ever since that day--so long ago now and so surreal in her memory it feels like a dream--Sherlock has made no mention of it.Oh, he still talks to her and values her opinions and expertise, but he keeps a certain distance from her. It feels deliberate. They might be more on a level now but Sherlock hasn’t shown the sort of openness he did there, not even when they’ve been alone. Molly can only wonder about his reasoning and why he’s chosen to keep himself remote.

But why would he ever do otherwise? He might not be the most socially aware person but even Sherlock would know to keep away from a taken woman.

Sometimes, though, sometimes...Molly wishes he wouldn’t keep away.

And therein lies the crux of the problem: she’s committed herself to Tom and promised to build a future with him, but her heart still belongs to Sherlock. And since there’s no chance of anything ever happening with him, she’s...settling.

She hates to think of it that way--that she’s _settling_ \--because Tom is a good man and deserves so much more, but there’s nothing else to call what she’s doing. She can’t have the man she really wants so she’s settling for the one man who _will_ have her. It makes her feel sick, like she’s an awful person, but what can she do? Sherlock is not going to change and she’s not getting any younger. She has to keep to her original hope, that over time her feelings for Sherlock will either fade or come under control. In the meantime she can only wish that no one notices how conflicted she is or how she’s gone right back to doing everything Sherlock asks of her. She’s determined to chart her own happiness apart from him. She feels that she will be very happy with Tom. She can be. She just has to let herself try.

Sherlock doesn’t exactly make it easy.

His voice breaks through her thoughts one afternoon while she’s in the middle of viewing some test samples in the lab. “Molly.”

“Hmm?” Molly doesn’t look up from her microscope. He’s been in the lab for at least an hour, keeping to himself and working on his own experiment. The silence has been companionable.

“I need to ask a favor of you,” Sherlock says, coming to stand next to her. “I’ve told you about the bolt holes that I keep, yes?”

She looks askance at him, taking note of just how close he’s standing. “Yes, you told me about them when we--when we planned your fake death.” Why is he so close? Does he want something, is he trying to manipulate her? (No. He’s not. They’re past that now.)

“Good. You have a spare bedroom in your flat, correct?” Before she can so much as look up and nod a yes, he adds, “I’d like to use it as a bolt hole. I’m in need of a new one.”

She blinks at him in disbelief. “You--you what?”

Sherlock looks impatient. “Dullness is very unbecoming of you, Molly, we’ve discussed this. Yes or no? Do say yes, my options are very limited right now.”

“Sorry--I just--” She’s having some difficulty moving past the notion of Sherlock in her flat, in the spare bedroom. _Get a grip, Molly, he’s just being himself, and besides, you_ are _friends now_. She swallows. “Why my flat?”

He rolls his eyes. “You live alone. Your spare bedroom is kept mainly for a sister who hardly visits. There’s enough of a physical resemblance between myself and your fiancé that anyone who might see me coming and going will just assume that I am him and think nothing more of it.”

There’s a moment where Molly considers this, chewing her lip, while Sherlock moves back to his own microscope. It’s all true: her spare bedroom is rarely used, and Tom does look quite a bit like him. Finally, she sighs. “Should I have a key made for you, then?”

This time it’s Sherlock who stays focused on his telescope. “No need. I’ll just use the spare you’ve got beneath the mat outside your door.”

“Under the--” Molly splutters, her face flushing. “Sherlock! You haven’t already been _inside_ my flat, have you?” The only answer she receives is a quick flash of a grin as he focuses his microscope. Annoyed and embarrassed, Molly stomps off to her office to do some paperwork.

It doesn’t even occur to her to consider what Tom might think of her new arrangement.

Any romantic or idealistic thoughts Molly might have entertained about it disappear the first time Sherlock lets himself into her flat in the middle of the night. She nearly gives him a concussion with the club she keeps beneath her bed for safety against intruders, and their heated argument after wakes up a very groggy and disgruntled Tom. After the second time this happens, she resolves not to let Tom sleep there anymore. If they’re going to spend the night together, they can do it at his flat.

So it goes. Sherlock insinuates himself deeper into her life and she lets him. Eventually she gets used to him showing up in her flat at odd hours; sometimes John is even with him. She just smiles, puts the kettle on, and goes back to whatever it is she was doing at the time (sleep, usually) and lets them do what they like. Sherlock (and John by extension) may be intimately acquainted with her flat now, but she’ll be damned if she lets that encroach upon her pursuit of happiness with Tom. So what if it’s mildly inappropriate? She reasons with herself that she is only doing what a friend would do--help him--and no matter what else changes about her, she will always be there to help Sherlock. Always.

As John and Mary’s wedding date approaches, Molly seems to be the only one concerned at the idea of Sherlock being the best man, and she doesn’t understand why the others can’t see it. They all know what Sherlock is like--he doesn’t do niceties and pleasantries--so how can they possibly expect him to spend a full day doing both without at least one major cock-up? Mrs. Hudson at least understands her (unlike Lestrade), but when the other woman nearly laughs herself sick at the idea of Sherlock reading telegrams at the reception, Molly gives up. Fine. She’ll be the only one worried then.

“It’ll be fine, Molls,” Tom reassures her as they drive to the church. “Maybe Mary gave him cards to read off of. How hard can a best man speech be, really?”

About as hard as she’d feared, evidently. Saying it’s a rollercoaster of a speech would be putting it lightly. Sherlock has the room laughing and crying in turn before he goes completely off the rails talking about murder, and Molly is so on edge that she’s in danger of grinding her teeth into dust. And Tom--bless him, he tries--just ends up looking like a moron. (A meat dagger? _Seriously_?) She knows stabbing him with a fork was out of order and she really should apologize, but she can’t. She’s too focused on silently willing Sherlock to keep it together and solve the mystery that’s sprung up to really care.

But Sherlock does solve it, and soon the reception is back to how it should be. Molly watches him play the waltz he composed for John and Mary’s first dance and she marvels at the fluid grace with which he moves the bow of his violin, completely caught up in the music. He’s beautiful like this and there’s no way she can deny it, even with Tom nearby.

After the waltz is finished and the DJ starts up, Tom pulls her out onto the floor to dance. She goes willingly, grateful for the opportunity to focus solely on Tom and having fun, and not worrying about Sherlock. It all goes well for a moment or two before she catches sight of Sherlock leaving, threading his way through the crowd. Her movements falter slightly as a strange sort of sadness settles in her stomach like a block of wet concrete. No one else noticed him leaving, she knows that. John and Mary are caught up in each other and everyone else is too caught up in dancing to really see. But she sees, she notices, because that’s what she does.

She wants to go after him. She almost does, her body turning slightly in his direction as he disappears through the door. Old Molly, she thinks faintly, would have definitely run after him. He’s sad when he thinks no one else can see, and she _should_ go after him. But what would she even say to convince him to come back? Nothing that he wouldn’t tear her to shreds with words over, and besides, she can’t go. She’s been awful to Tom all day, she knows that acutely, and now she’s trying to make it up to him. Running after another man will not help that at all.

Sherlock can take care of himself.

So she lets him leave and \stays with Tom. If her thoughts stay with Sherlock, though, well--no one else has to know about that.

\--------

A few days after the wedding, Tom calls to ask if he can come over. Sherlock hasn’t used the spare bedroom in weeks, so Molly thinks they’ll be okay. She expects that maybe they’ll eat dinner and watch some telly, or go out to the pub. What she doesn’t expect is for Tom to be in a foul mood, eyebrows drawn together and mouth pulled into a frown. He ignores her hello and walks past her into the flat, hands clenching and unclenching.

Molly watches him pace agitatedly for a moment, trying to ignore the growing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Tom? Tom, is--is something wrong?”

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, because Tom lets out a bark of a laugh. “Is something wrong,” he parrots darkly. It’s so unlike his usual demeanor that Molly actually shrinks back a little.

“Tom--“

He laughs again before stopping and jabbing a finger at her. “It’s you! You’re what’s wrong!”

The dread in her stomach mushrooms into full-blown nausea and she blinks at him through wide, shocked eyes. “Me?” she chokes out.

Tom resumes his pacing, arms gesturing wildly as he talks--as if he’s been holding all of this in for a very long time. “Yes, you! You and bloody Sherlock Holmes. I swear, that man has--”

“Has what?” she cuts in, feeling sick.

Tom’s stare couldn’t be more exasperated. “He’s completely taken over your life! It’s always about him with you, isn’t it? You try to act like it isn’t, but I can tell. We all can. Was it like this before we met, before he--jumped off the roof of the hospital?”

Defensiveness bobs up to join the nausea, and Molly hugs her arms across her stomach. _They all can tell?_ “I just help him with his cases, that’s all,” she murmurs, and hates how small and unconvincing her voice sounds. Tom can hear it too, because he shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“He’s got a key to your flat and he’s in and out as he pleases,” he says. “You hardly ever let me come here anymore. How am I supposed to feel about that, that--that another man has free reign in my fiancée’s flat? Am I supposed to be okay with it?”

“It’s--you--” Molly narrows her eyes despite the hurt. “Are you suggesting that Sherlock and I--”

“And let’s not forget how you stabbed me with a bloody _fork_ ,” Tom continues, ignoring her. “You’re so protective of him, I say one wrong thing and you _stab me with a fork_. That was just lovely. Big show of love there.”

Tears are stinging her eyes and she feels light-headed. “Tom, I don’t want to fight. Please--”

“I don’t either!” Tom exclaims. “But I’m sick of fighting _for_ you against a man who hardly ever gives you a second glance! There shouldn’t even be a contest!”

Eyesight blurry with unshed tears, she takes a step toward him. “Tom, we’re just friends. I swear. That’s all we’ll ever be. I love _you_.”

“But you love him too. Don’t you.” All of the anger has drained out of him now, replaced with a weary sadness. When she doesn’t reply immediately--and she can’t, because she doesn’t want to lie but she also doesn’t want to hurt him--his face collapses and he turns away from her.

She puts a hand out toward him. “Tom…”

But he steps away from her, dragging his hands over his face. His hunched posture and unwillingness to look at her tells her that he’s crying, and that’s when her own tears finally spill over. She can’t bear to see him upset, but she’s caused this.

“I think,” he starts after a moment, but seems to think better of it. He turns back to her instead, taking her hand between his and looking down at the ring sitting on her finger. “I think,” he repeats quietly, “that I--we--can’t do this anymore.”

Molly feels like she’s had the breath knocked from her chest. “What?” she gasps, trying to pull her hand back, but Tom’s hold is firm.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says again. The sadness in his voice is so palpable it threatens to crush her. “Going on pretending that it’s really me you love, that everything will be okay. But you’re never going to let him go. I know that.”

There’s a tight grip on her heart and she can barely breathe or speak for how much it hurts. She never intended for it to end up like this. She thought she’d done a good job of shelving her feelings and moving on, never imagined that Tom might reach a breaking point. Now she sees that she’s failed and all she’s succeeded in doing is hurting him terribly. She feels wretched, the lowest of the low. Tom doesn’t deserve this and she doesn’t deserve him. She never has.

“I’m sorry,” she cries through her tears. Lying is over and done with, now. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“I know.” Tom tries to smile but it’s too pained to be anything other than a grimace. He reaches out to brush away some of her tears; it only makes her cry harder. “But it’s not fair to me--or you--to go on like this. I can’t be happy knowing that you’re not truly happy, and…” He sighs and swipes a hand across his eyes. “It’ll be better this way. For the both of us.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. It’s all she _can_ say, even though all of her apologies will never be enough.

Tom tries smiling again before carefully slipping the ring from her finger and pocketing it. Her stomach twists at the loss of its weight. “There,” he says. “Now you--you can--now you don’t have to worry about me anymore.” The effort it’s taking him to speak is obvious, like the words are being ripped from him. Molly is beyond words now, openly crying. Still, he leans down to gently kiss her forehead. “Goodbye, Molly,” he murmurs.

She wants to follow him, to hug him and hold him and beg forgiveness and promise to do better, but she knows this is it. She’s failed. Her happily ever after has vanished and it’s all her fault. She cries as she hears him put on his jacket, cries as she hears him leave, and cries as she hears him quietly close the door. She cries all the way to her bedroom where it continues until she cries herself to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, I am actually afraid to post this last chapter, mostly because it is largely unbeta'd and I think it's sort of a disaster. BUT--I finished a story! Hooray! I hope you all like it. Many thanks to Rachel for giving it a read and broomclosetkink for her encouragement.

The next few weeks are difficult as Molly struggles to get over a broken heart. She may not have loved Tom the way he’d wanted her to but she’d still loved him, and she feels his loss keenly. Work keeps her busy during the day, but her nights and weekends are empty and lonely. She catches herself wanting to send him a text more than once, just to talk or say hello, before reminding herself that it’s no longer an option. Tom hasn’t made any effort to contact her since he broke the engagement off; that tells her that he’s either unable or unwilling to talk to her. She can’t say she blames him, but it still leaves her with a heavy and sick heart. She hasn’t just lost a fiancé; she’s lost a friend too.

Unfortunately, there are not many people Molly can turn to. Her mother is too disappointed in her to be much help and she hasn’t been very close to her sister in years; John and Mary are still away on their honeymoon; and she knows better than to even think of approaching Sherlock with this topic. She calls Mrs. Hudson, but she ends up unintentionally making things worse.

“We weren’t sure it would really last, you know,” Mrs. Hudson says, and Molly can only assume that _we_ means everyone included in their small circle of friends. “He looked and dressed so much like Sherlock that, well--anyway, I’m sure it’s for the best, dear. I know it hurts, but you shouldn’t have to settle.”

Hearing the blunt truth from someone else is like rubbing salt into the wound. “Not helping,” Molly mutters miserably. So everyone else could see that she was failing too, even Sherlock? Why didn’t they say anything before--why didn’t Sherlock say anything? Nothing’s stopped him from deducing her (or her boyfriends) to shreds before. Well then. Great. Wonderful. Just lovely. She feels like a fool.

In the end Molly deals with it the way she’s always dealt with things: alone. Shut off her feelings, compartmentalize, and get on with her life.

Thankfully, the only time Sherlock comes by the lab after John and Mary’s wedding is before Tom breaks off the engagement. After that, she doesn’t see him for a few weeks. She would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t miss his presence there, but in a way she is glad. She doesn’t need him around complicating her already raw and jumbled feelings.

A month passes and she begins to think that the worst of the hurt might be over. Her heart still feels fragile and brittle in her chest, but the heavy ache has started to ease and she’s starting to smile again. It’s a start.  

One morning as she is putting away some test slides, her mobile rings. She frowns when she sees that it’s John. It’s unusual for him to call instead of text, and it’s very early; she’s been at work barely an hour. It must be important. She swipes her thumb across the touch screen to answer it.

“Molly? Hi, it’s John.” His voice sounds tense and angry. “Can I call in a favor?”

Molly blinks. “Sure, of course,” she replies, slightly apprehensive. “Is something wrong?”

“Hah.” John is definitely not happy. “I need you to run some tests on a urine sample for me. I found Sherlock in a flop house just now.”

There’s the sound of what is unmistakably Sherlock complaining very loudly in the background, but she barely hears it. Her entire world has just tunneled down to _Sherlock_ and _flop house_ and what that combination likely means. Disappointment and anger hit her from both sides and she has to count to ten before she can focus on the phone again. “Do you already have the sample?” she asks tersely.

“No,” John says. “We’ll need to get that too.”

“Fine. I’ll have something ready.” They hang up, and Molly goes to where they keep plastic jars for samples, opening and closing the drawers none too gently. Sherlock has relapsed once since she’s known him, but that was long before he met John. His influence has seemed to do Sherlock a world of good and she’d thought that his days of drug use were over. Now, John’s been gone barely a month and he’s fallen back to his old destructive habits. She’s worried, but mostly she’s angry. How could he so willfully destroy himself out of _boredom_?

She’s pacing the lab when they finally arrive, John leading the way. Sherlock looks sullen and exasperated and every inch the addict with his greasy hair and ill-fitting clothes. Molly hands John the plastic jar and a pair of latex gloves, and he escorts Sherlock off to the restroom to get the sample. Mary quietly asks if there’s a first aid kit around, and when Molly gets her one she starts tending to the arm of one of the two unfamiliar men they brought with them--Isaac and Wiggins, she said their names were. When John returns with both Sherlock and the urine sample, Molly gets to work.

It doesn’t take long. All of the telltale markers are there: traces of heroin and cocaine. Something unpleasant settles in her stomach as she pushes away from the microscope, yanking her gloves off.

John is standing nearby, arms crossed. “Well? Is he clean?”

Molly’s blood boils. “Clean?” she echoes, nostrils flaring. Instead of answering him, she turns to Sherlock, who is learning against the table and looking anywhere but at her. Something inside her snaps, and before she can stop herself she’s lashed out, slapping him across the face. Mary and the two men look up, startled. Then she’s slapping him again, and once more for good measure. And Sherlock just lets her do it, without fighting back or telling her to stop. It only makes her angrier.

“How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with, and how dare you betray the love of your friends!” she cries. “Say you’re sorry!”

Sherlock is prodding gingerly at his cheek. “Sorry your engagement’s over,” he mutters, “though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”

Molly has to clench her fists to keep from slapping him again. So it’s back to the scathing deductions, is it? “Stop it,” she says, her stomach turning over. “Just-- _stop it_.”

John comes over, and it’s something of a relief to see that his anger matches her own. “If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could’ve talked to me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Oh please, do relax. This is all for a case.”

Molly tunes them out as she turns away, seething. There is nothing, she thinks, nothing at all that could possibly justify letting himself go down this path. She doesn’t want to see him spiral down again, doesn’t want to see him gaunt and twitchy with dark shadows beneath his eyes. Never again. She doesn’t think she could bear it, and more importantly--she doesn’t think John could either. Sherlock has friends now. Is he really so detached and aloof that he still can’t bring himself to care for them?

_You do count_ , his voice says in her head, mocking her. _You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you_.

Well. He does care for her and John and the rest of them, at least a little--or else they never would have had to fake his death--but evidently put together they are still not enough.

Moments later Sherlock’s mobile chimes and whatever he sees obviously pleases him because he’s animated again, swinging out the door with a confused and still-angry John in tow. Mary finishes up with Wiggins’ arm and thanks Molly for the first aid kit before she and the two other men leave. Molly is left alone to stew in her own anger and disappointment for the rest of the day.

When she gets home that evening she decides a nice long shower and a glass of wine of just the thing she needs to shed her frustrations. She’s just finished drying her hair and is headed for the kitchen when her mobile starts buzzing. Groaning, Molly goes to pick it up. It’s John again; uncharitably, she wonders what Sherlock has gone and done now.  

The tone of John’s voice immediately alerts her to the fact that this is different.

“Molly? It’s John again,” he says. “You need to come to the hospital right now.”

_Oh no_. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sherlock. He’s…he’s been shot.”

\--------

Molly gets to the hospital as quickly as she can. There’s nothing she can do for the speed of the taxi she takes, but when she’s on foot she’s all but running. It’s not Bart’s, so John meets her up front and leads her to the recovery rooms, explaining as they go. “We were in Magnussen’s office. Well--Sherlock was upstairs, I was downstairs looking after--anyway, when I went to look for him he was down and Magnussen was unconscious. Mycroft’s doing his…whatever it is he does to get all of this settled. Sherlock’s been in surgery. But, here we are.” They stop outside of one of the recovery rooms, and John indicates the door. “He was still unconscious when I left him, but you can go in.”

Molly gives him a small smile in thanks and quietly pushes the door open, slipping in and letting it click shut behind her.

Sherlock looks diminished in his hospital bed, small amongst the machines and wires and tubes that surround him. A lump forms in her throat as she walks slowly toward him. All of her frustration and anger of earlier drains away and all she feels now is concern and love, love so strong it makes her chest ache. She wants to--hold his hand, touch his face, crawl onto the bed next to him and never let go. But she’s afraid even the slightest touch might upset the delicate balance he’s in, so she stops next to his bedside and simply looks down at him. She’s only seen him this still once before, in her morgue the day he jumped off the roof of Bart’s, and that memory combined with the circumstances of today just upsets her even more. This sort of stillness doesn’t suit Sherlock at all. She wishes he would wake up.

As if sensing her thoughts--miracle of miracles--Sherlock’s eyes open slightly. Molly freezes, unsure if she should go get John or just stay where she is. His eyes slide over to her and, after a moment, he swallows. “Molly,” he slurs, voice thick with anesthesia and painkillers.

She nods, taking a step closer and leaning over him a little so he can see her better. “It’s me,” she says quietly.

“Molly,” he says again. “I fell back.”

His eyes look so hazy that Molly wonders if he’s even really aware; what he said doesn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry, Sherlock…what?”

“I fell back.” But his eyes have already fluttered shut again, his face relaxing, and she knows he’s unconscious. She touches his hand, letting her fingers linger briefly, before turning to leave.

She finds John in the waiting room nearby. He has his phone out and is muttering at it, but looks up when he hears her come in. “I still can’t get a hold of Mary,” he says, gesturing to his phone. Molly frowns, worried, but maybe mentioning Sherlock will take his mind off it.

“Sherlock woke up for a minute,” she says. John’s eyebrows go up. “I--I don’t think he was really awake, he was talking a bit of nonsense, I think.”

“What did he say?”

Molly frowns again. “He said--‘I fell back’.” There isn’t any sign of recognition on John’s face, so she shrugs lamely. “I don’t know what it meant; he was only awake for the one moment. Maybe--maybe he was dreaming of…well.” She doesn’t want to cause John any unnecessary grief by mentioning Sherlock’s fall, but she knows he’s thinking of it anyway by the way his mouth presses down into a line. She rushes to cover up her gaffe. “Anyway, he’s asleep again now. I just--thought you might want to know.”

John nods, then crosses his arms and looks down as if thinking something over. Molly walks away to sit down in one of the cramped little chairs; to her surprise, John follows and sits down next to her. When she looks at him, he’s got a gentler expression on his face, something almost like pity. It drops a seed of apprehension into her stomach. “Molly, there’s something else,” he says carefully, “and I…I think it would be better if you heard it from me first.”

She eyes him warily. “Yes?”

“To get into Magnussen’s office, Sherlock…well, he…” John huffs a laugh and looks away, shaking his head. “There’s really no way to say it except to just say it, _so_. Sherlock faked a relationship in order to get in.”

“What?” Molly blanches.

To his credit, John looks less than pleased himself. “He started right after our wedding, me and Mary’s. Remember Janine?”

Oh, Molly remembers Janine. She remembers seeing the maid of honor talking to Sherlock quite a lot throughout the day of the wedding and the not small amount of jealousy she’d felt about it. “Yeah,” she manages, feeling sick. “I remember her.”

“He had her pretty well fooled. The bloody wanker even took it as far as _proposing_ to her.”

Molly grips the armrests of her seat and tries to ignore the ugly heat crawling its way up her neck. She feels--well, she’s not sure exactly.  She’s emotionally worn out from everything that’s happened today and she’s not sure she can handle much more. There’s anger again, along with embarrassment and hurt and the urge to run and hide. She knows her feelings for Sherlock are obvious to everyone, but she doesn’t like being reminded of it.

John’s watching her, trying to gauge her reaction. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he says. “I really am.” He reaches out to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Janine was, well, not exactly happy when she found out. I just thought it might be better if it came from me instead of somewhere else.”

Two slow breaths to calm herself, and Molly nods. “Thank you, John,” she says eventually. “Really. I’m…”

“Pissed off?” John supplies, smiling in an attempt to lighten things. “Furious? Thinking of fiddling with his morphine drip?”

Molly laughs despite herself, as does John, but they quickly sober. “It’s just,” she starts, but thinks better of it. She doesn’t need to sob on John’s shoulder about her messed-up choice in men. “Never mind.”

He seems to understand, though, because he smiles again and gives her hand one last squeeze before standing and taking his phone out. “I’m going to try and ring Mary again,” he says.

Molly excuses herself a short while later, promising to come back again after her shift tomorrow. John waves her off, but he’s frowning and preoccupied: still no sign of Mary.

\--------

Janine gets her revenge on Sherlock two days later. Molly’s walking in to work when she sees the papers at the newsagent and stops dead, staring at the headlines in horror. _Seven Times a Night. Shag-a-lot Holmes_. And on, and on. She’s equal parts sickened, upset, and angry. She knows Janine’s made a pretty penny off selling her stories and while there is a part of her that thinks it’s Sherlock’s just desserts, mostly she’s hurt. So Sherlock took the ruse _that_ far? She feels her face burning as she ducks her head and walks quickly inside. She’s knows she’s being unfair, taking it so personally when Sherlock’s never made any advances toward her, but it hurts just the same. Dealing with her feelings was easier when she believed that Sherlock was just uninterested in everyone, period. Now she feels personally lacking, which is still unfair…but things have never been easy when it’s come to Sherlock.

Later that afternoon she gets a text from John saying Sherlock’s escaped the hospital and she hasn’t happened to see him, has she? No, she texts back, she hasn’t. She’s close to being completely fed up with him _and_ herself for being such a hopeless sorry sod about him. Perhaps it’s time she seriously reevaluated her life choices concerning him again. Maybe it’s time to shut out her feelings for him for good and resign herself to a life of lonely solitude.

_Just get him back in hospital_ , she texts John. _He needs to recover_.

Once Molly hears that Sherlock is safely back in the hospital, she forces herself to go visit.

He’s reclined in his bed and staring out the window when she arrives. There’s a glass of water sitting abandoned on the side table next to a stack of papers with Sherlock and Janine’s pictures splashed all over them. Molly studiously ignores them in favor of hovering in the doorway. She clears her throat. “So. You’re actually going to stay here this time?”

Sherlock rolls his head over to look at her. His gaze is mostly clear, so he’s going light on the morphine. That’s good.

“Yes,” he says at length. “I was bleeding internally. The doctors said it would be prudent of me to stay in bed and recover. I have to say I agree.”

Molly snorts gracelessly, even as the thought of him being in such a grave condition tugs painfully at her heart. “Maybe you should have thought of that _before_ you pulled a runner. What could possibly be so important that you decided to leave before you recovered?”

“A case,” Sherlock says evasively, and she knows that’s all she’s going to get out of him on the subject. She sighs and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to be irritated with him, she really doesn’t, but everything he’s done lately has only served to frustrate or hurt her. Oh, she knows he isn’t doing it to intentionally hurt _her_ , but it smarts just the same.  

“Why are you here?” he asks after a moment. “You’re obviously angry with me, and not just about this.” He gestures to his bandages. “Do I need to apologize about the drugs and the remark about your engagement too?”

Frustration spikes in Molly’s blood. “Oh, nicely spotted,” she says sarcastically. “Well done you. _Yes_ , I’m angry.” Her eyes flit to the papers on the side table. Sherlock follows her gaze and his eyebrows raise in comprehension.

“Ah, Janine too,” he says. “Well. You needn’t be worried about her. She served her purpose and we’ve reach an understanding. It’s done now.”

Molly gives the idea of slapping him again some serious consideration. “You just--you don’t _get_ it, do you?” she cries. “You don’t understand. This makes you exactly like _him_.” The tone of her voice makes it implicit who _he_ is, and Sherlock’s face clouds over.

“Don’t compare me to Moriarty,” he says darkly.

“No?” Molly shoots back. “He led me on, pretended to be interested in me just to get to you. He _used_ me. And that’s exactly what you did to her--you used her, led her on, pretended to be interested in her just to get close to someone. It’s the exact same thing.”

“Moriarty only wanted to make a fool out of me,” Sherlock replies. “Magnussen is a vile blackmailer who must be stopped. I’m not sorry I did it.”

Molly sighs again and runs a hand over her face. “If you can’t understand why what you did was wrong, we don’t have anything else to talk about.” She turns to leave. “Get some rest.”

“Molly,” he says, and she stops halfway out the door. He’s looking at her with a quiet sort of seriousness she’s rarely seen on him. “I really am sorry about your engagement.”

She swallows against the sudden lump in her throat. “Good night, Sherlock,” she says softly, and leaves.

Two days later, she gets a text from him.

_I’m sorry._

It takes all of her willpower not to respond. How can she be sure that he’s not just saying it to get back into her good graces? She can’t be, and she’s not sure she wants to find out. So she pours all of her energy into her job. Work keeps her busy and occupied enough that she doesn’t have much time to think about Sherlock aside from the text updates that John sends. She doesn’t visit him again, not even when he is released to go back home to Baker Street.

It’s difficult, but Molly feels like she needs the distance. It helps to clear her mind and lets her sort out her jumbled mass of emotions regarding him. She still loves him, of course she does, she just doesn’t particularly _like_ him very much at the moment.

She spends Christmas alone. It’s her first one alone in a few years, but it’s not so bad. She has Toby, presents from relatives that came in the post, and music on the stereo to go along with the simple dinner she’s cooked for herself. She gets a glass of wine after and calls Mrs. Hudson, and they have a lovely talk. Once that’s done she puts the telly on while she gets ready for bed. She’s just coming back out from brushing her teeth when the telly turns to breaking news, and she stops in her tracks.

_Charles Augustus Magnussen shot dead at home. Charles Augustus Magnussen dead._

Molly gasps, her heart sinking. She has a terrible feeling--no, she knows, is absolutely sure--that somehow Sherlock or John or both of them were involved. She’s sure of it.

She keeps her mobile near her bed when she goes to sleep. John, ever the reliable one, calls very early the next morning. He says that he can’t talk long and probably shouldn’t be calling at all, but he felt she should know. Sherlock has been taken in on charges of murder and high treason. John doesn’t know where he’s being held or what’s going to happen to him.

As a result, Molly isn’t very surprised when she sees a black car waiting for her outside Bart’s when she leaves after her shift that evening. She just opens the door and gets in, letting it carry her off.

Inside, Mycroft’s assistant doesn’t pay her any attention aside from a brief smile of greeting; she’s engrossed in the texts coming through on her mobile. It’s fine. Molly doesn’t feel much like talking anyway. Instead she stares out the window as London slides past them into a section she’s unfamiliar with. Eventually they pull up to a building where men in dark suits are waiting for her. She’s instructed to leave her bag in the car, and then the men silently escort her into the building. It’s older but well-kept; she thinks once it might have been someone’s home. They go down several corridors before stopping in front of a seemingly random door. One of the men unlocks it before opening it and standing aside to let her pass.

As the door shuts and locks behind her, Molly takes in her surroundings. It’s a well-appointed if ordinary-looking bedroom containing a wardrobe, chair, and double bed. There’s a single door off to one side leading to what she assumes is the bathroom. There are no windows; the room is lit by lamps. And sitting on the bed is--

Sherlock, who rises as soon as the door opens and he sees her. Molly chokes on her breath, all her frustrations and  irritations with him vanishing like mist under the sun. She _knew_ as soon as she saw the car that this would be about him, but somehow she’s still surprised to see him. Knowing and seeing are two different things. Her pulse speeds up as he rounds the bed and stops in front of her, his eyes taking her in, and it takes a second to figure out why because it’s not the least bit sexual: it’s his face. He has the same expression as he did the night he came to her in the lab, seeking her help.

Her heart stills in her chest. _He’s going to die._

“What are they going to do to you, Sherlock?” she asks, afraid. There’s no sense in wasting time on pleasantries.

“Eastern Europe,” he replies quietly. “Top secret mission.” As ever, he is not one to mince words. “Mycroft estimates it will take six months.”

There’s something he isn’t telling her, she knows, or else she probably wouldn’t be here. “And then…?”

Sherlock looks down for a second; when he looks back at her, his eyes have a resigned finality to them. “I’m … afraid I won’t be coming back from this, Molly.”

And there it is. Her stomach drops and her vision clouds as tears fill her eyes; she clenches her fists to try and keep them at bay because she will _not_ cry in front of him. It’s hard, though, when she feels like her hold on her composure is slipping and a thousand protests are flying through her head. This isn’t happening. (Denial is the first stage of grief.)

“They can’t send you off to die for high treason,” she says, staring fixedly at the top button on his shirt. If she doesn’t look at his face maybe she won’t cry. “It can’t...that’s not how it works.”

“I also killed a man,” Sherlock reminds her gently, “a very powerful man, who was technically under government protection. This was the--kindest option Mycroft could procure for me.”

Molly stays silent for a moment, despair waging war on her heart. Sherlock is right, she knows he is, and yet she still loves him. He’s a murderer and she would still give up everything for him. She’s not sure what that says about her as a person. She sniffs loudly and tries to stand up taller--to put on a brave front. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.” He pauses. “This is goodbye.”

There’s no hope of containing her composure now. One tear slips out, followed by another, and another, until tears are streaming silently down her cheeks, and she’s furious and ashamed of herself. Sherlock doesn’t need this weakness, doesn’t need her falling apart when there is so little time left. She angrily swipes at her eyes and blinks several times before looking away and swallowing hard. “Right. So--” Her voice is wobbling. “Does John know--?”

She misses the curious look that passes over Sherlock’s face. “He’ll be at the airfield tomorrow with Mary.” He takes a step toward her. “But I asked to have you brought here tonight because I wanted to see you. I-- _needed_ to.”

Molly whips her head up to stare at him. His choice of words was very deliberate, even if the admission sounded difficult. But she doesn’t want to assume, doesn’t want to open herself up to hurt and ridicule, but--she has to know. “Why?” she whispers.

Deep down, she suspects she might already know the answer.

Sherlock stares solemnly at her for a moment before sighing, and then it’s as if he’s let the mask of his indifference fall away, and she can _see_. He’s looking at her with such raw emotion it takes her breath away. There’s sadness there, and grief, and a sliver of fear alongside what can only be affection and longing. It speaks volumes, more than he could ever say with words. Molly sways on her feet and he steps forward and pulls her to him, folding his arms around her and resting his cheek on her hair. Her breath shudders as she leans into him, burying her face in his shirtfront.

“Because you’re the one person who matters the most,” Sherlock murmurs. He reaches up to thread one hand through her ponytail and when he speaks again it’s very hesitant, as if he’s struggling to choose his words very carefully. “I haven’t always been kind to you and for that I am sorry. Kindness, and sentiment, I have always found to be a hindrance and an excuse used by others to rationalize that which is illogical and without reason. However, with--John, and Mary, I’ve come to see that perhaps sentiment is not without its advantages.” His arms tighten slightly around her. “I have realized the same about you.”

Molly is aware that she’s trembling slightly, but that’s okay because Sherlock is holding her and she’s memorizing the feel of him, how they fit together, and she never wants it to end. “Oh?” she mumbles into his chest.

“Oh,” Sherlock repeats, and she can hear a whisper of his sardonic humor in his tone. Then he pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands on her shoulders. “Molly, you have done so much for me that I can never repay. Saying goodbye is the least of what you deserve.”

She laughs--it comes out more like a sob--and gently thumps his chest with her fists. “If you’re trying to be romantic, this is a rubbish time for it,” she jokes weakly.

Sherlock’s mouth twists into a small, sad smile. “I’m not a romantic. You know that. However, since this is the last chance I’ll get, then--yes. I do care for you. As much as I am capable of caring for anyone.”

Love and grief spike sharply in her heart, and Molly does her best to smile back at him. It’s not exactly a declaration of love, but she accepts it for what it is--and it’s a lot, coming from him. It hurts more than she can bear that it’s only coming out now, at the very end, but it also brings a sort of closure as well. She finally knows exactly where she stands with him.

The door opens suddenly, startling them apart. Molly turns to see one of the suited men enter, looking at her. “Time’s up, he says stiffly.

Molly turns back to Sherlock, eyes wide. This is it: time for any last words or touches. She’ll never see him again, never hear his voice, never have a chance to explore this sudden leap forward in their relationship. It’s all lost now.

But there’s a glint of resolve in Sherlock’s eyes. Before she can say anything, he reaches out to pull her back to him. Cupping her face in his hands, he bends to press a kiss first to her forehead, then her mouth. White heat lances through her, and Molly can’t help but pour everything she feels into kissing him back. It’s hard and desperate and over all too fast. As he pulls away, she chases after him to stand on tiptoe and put her mouth to his ear.

“I love you,” she whispers. Last chances, and all that.

Shock briefly registers on Sherlock’s face, but the suited man is clearing his throat and Molly is already forcing herself to turn away. As the guard escorts her out into the hall, she turns as they move to shut the door, and commits her last sight of Sherlock to memory: standing alone in the center of the room, hands hanging at his sides, staring after her as he schools his expression back into one of calm collectedness.

The men lead her back outside to the car, where Mycroft’s assistant is waiting. If Molly cries silently as they drive her home, she pretends not to notice.

\--------

Molly forces herself to go on autopilot in order to deal with work the next day. It’s the only way she feels like she can cope, putting one foot in front of the other and going through the motions. Isn’t that what she’s good at? If she doesn’t think about the fact that Sherlock is at an airfield saying goodbye to John and Mary, maybe she won’t fall apart. If she doesn’t think about the way he kissed her--as much a goodbye as his words were--everything will be okay.

Probably, she’s become too adept at coping these last few years. Her coworkers can tell she’s not okay, but they don’t press any further. It’s a small mercy that she is grateful for.

It’s early afternoon when she hears the burst of static coming from her office. Frowning, she goes to investigate. She’d left the telly on for a bit of background noise as she tried to work--the lab was far too quiet for her today--but maybe the signal has gone shody.

Or maybe not. She stops in the doorway, her blood running cold.

On the screen is the face of a man she never wanted to see again.

_Did you miss me?_

Bile and terror rise in her throat as her whole body flushes from hot to cold, her knees going weak. Still staring at the telly, she fumbles in her pocket for her mobile and scrolls through her contacts with shaking hands.

_Did you miss me?_

It takes her three times before he picks up. “Greg? Greg,” she blurts, panicking. “It’s Molly. There--I don’t know how he did it because he’s _dead_ but Moriarty is on my telly--”

“I know, Molly,” Lestrade cuts in, sounding a little panicked himself. “I know. I saw it too.”

“What?” she gasps.

_Did you miss me?_

“At the pub,” Lestrade explains. “I’m on my way to the Yard right now, apparently it’s everywhere.”

“How? How is this possible?” Her entire body is shaking now. “Greg, I did the autopsy myself!”

“I know, Molly, I know. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Look, would you feel better if you came to the Yard?”

“No...I’ll--I’ll be fine.” Molly switches the television off and bolts back out into the lab, shutting her office door behind her. “I’m sure you have enough to deal with right now. I’ll just phone John and Mary.”

“If you’re sure,” Lestrade says. She assures him that she is, and they hang up. She’s barely got her mobile back in her pocket again when it starts ringing; she takes it back out and her heart skips a beat when she sees the number. She hastily swipes a thumb across it.

“Sherlock?!”

“Molly!” It’s definitely Sherlock’s voice, and if she isn’t mistaken he sounds relieved to hear her. “Molly, are you at Bart’s?”

“Yes,” she manages, “yes, I’m in the lab, but what--you’re supposed to be gone, what’s going on--”

“I’ve been called back,” Sherlock replies shortly. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why.”

No, Molly thinks faintly, he doesn’t.

“Molly, listen to me,” he continues. “Stay in the lab and _do not_ leave. We’re coming to get you.”

“‘We’?” Well, she won’t be winning any awards for mental acuity today.

“John, Mary, and myself. And Mycroft, if he can bother to leave the car. We’ll be there soon. _Don’t_ leave.”

The line goes dead, and Molly stares at the phone in her hand for a moment before sucking in a breath and pocketing it. Everything is happening too quickly now. First Moriarty is back, then Sherlock (and oh god she told him she loved him and he’s coming _back_ ). Then she thinks of Moriarty’s face on the telly again and her stomach roils. She’s forced to sit down and put her head between her legs. She’s frightened beyond belief but she doesn’t want to show it; she wants to be determined and capable and not a blubbering mess. She reassures herself that between Sherlock and the Yard and Mycroft, they’ll figure out what is going on and put a swift end to it.

_Like Sherlock took care of Magnussen?_ she thinks, but immediately pushes that thought away.

It feels like age pass before she hears footsteps in the corridor, and she stands just as Sherlock bursts through the door, followed by John and Mary. He makes a beeline for her, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes as if searching for any sign of harm. “Molly, are you alright?” he asks.

Molly automatically reaches up to cover one of his hands with her own. “I’m fine, I promise,” she says, swallowing. “Just a bit shaken, that’s all. I’m--fine.”

Behind Sherlock, both John and Mary look a little surprised at his overt display of concern. John clears his throat. “We’re here to take you by your flat,” he says, eyeing Sherlock. “To help you collect some of your things. Because, ah--he said--”

“It’s not safe for you to be alone,” Sherlock finishes. His hands drop from her shoulders. “You’re coming to stay at Baker Street until this is solved.”

“Right. That,” John mutters, and folds his arms. He and Mary exchange a glance.

Molly’s face flushes. “But--what about Toby--and my flat--I’m sure Greg could get something arranged if you think I need protection--”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mmm, no. Too risky. Moriarty, or whoever has pulled this little stunt, will know now that it was you who aided in faking my death. You’re an obvious target for retaliation. I would feel much better if you were where I can easily keep track of you. You can have John’s old room; Mycroft will handle everything else.”

Molly sighs and looks to John and Mary. John gives her a helpless gesture--Sherlock has made up his mind and there will be no dissuading him from it now--but Mary gives her a small, understanding smile.

“Fine,” Molly says at length. “But I still keep my job. I don’t care if that means you have to walk me to and from work, I’m keeping my job.” Mary’s smile widens.

“Deal.” There’s the barest hint of a smile tugging at Sherlock’s mouth; he steps aside to let her move. “Come on, then. We have a lot to do.”

As they all leave the lab together, Molly can’t help but worry that perhaps they have all bitten off more than they can chew. If Moriarty managed to outsmart them once before, there’s no telling what he might do this time (if, indeed, it really is him responsible for this). Yet, she knows that no matter what happens or what the future brings, she’ll have people nearby who will keep her safe if necessary. She has John, Mary, Lestrade, and Sherlock--she even has Mycroft. She and Sherlock will eventually have to settle where exactly they fit into each other’s lives now that he’s not being sent off to die, but for now this is enough.

Looking at the grim determination in Sherlock’s eyes and the set of his jaw, though, Molly reconsiders and thinks that perhaps it’s not her who should be worried, but Moriarty.


End file.
